The Science Of Attraction
by Emma Lynch
Summary: Sherlock Holmes has quite a different life now (see my other fics) but how the HECK did that happen? What is the back story to the relationship between Sherlock Holmes and Molly Hooper? How could a Reasoning Machine ever find his true heart? Maybe there is a scientific explanation? The truth that is in plain sight all along. Let s look for the clues along the way...
1. Chapter 1

Part One – For Coffee?

"Listen, I was wondering... maybe later, when you're finished—"

" You're wearing lipstick. You weren't wearing lipstick before."

"I uh, I refreshed it a bit."

"Sorry, you were saying?"

"I was wondering if you'd like to have coffee."

" Black. Two sugars please. I'll be upstairs."

"Okay."

Molly Hooper watches him swan out of her morgue like he had every right to be there. To use her space; beat up her corpses; drink her coffee…

Sarah, the lab tech, calls him `_Mr Darcy_` - "rude, aloof, unrepentant and savagely _hot_, Molly – ticks all _my_ boxes, girl!"

Joanne, the morgue assistant, calls him `_Sheldon Cooper_` - "brilliantly clever; on the spectrum, babe, but _strangely_ attractive!"

As it turned out, Mike Stamford calls him `Sherlock Holmes`, which _was_ his actual name; and although Mike didn't actually reference the physical beauty of her occasional interloper, Molly often chastened herself for allowing him more leeway than she would have allowed a less perfect specimen.

Molly carefully packed away her brand new verification equipment (`_Eliminate specimen misidentification and ensure result integrity in anatomical pathology labs with the Thermo Scientific™ CheckMate™ Verification System!`)_and considered her current situation.

She was a strong woman. She knew what she wanted. She wasn't just some modern day _crypt-keeper_ with a crush on a rude stranger. Nah, Molly Hooper is a rubber ball…she bounces back.

Plonking down a steaming mug of black, sweetened liquid, Molly gives Sherlock Holmes the benefit of her most dazzling of smiles.

He barely looks at her; saving his Icelandic glare for the microscope lens.

"Mmm…"

Molly folds her arms across her chest; feeling the small bottle in her breast pocket nudge against her forearm. I`ll give you two sugars, _Sheldon Darcy_…

As she didn't appear to be moving away, he eventually looks up – at her – for the first time; then at the coffee; then back at her.

"Coffee for you. Black, two sugars, just like you…requested." She looks, pointedly at the cup. They both give it a good stare, then look back at each other. _Gawd…those cheekbones_…but she wasn't going to waver. He was going to drink it, damn it.

Then, an extraordinary thing happened. Sherlock Holmes smiled.

_Lord have mercy_ – she had maybe been a little hasty….Molly`s cheeks burn as she realises how ridiculous she was being. However cool and aloof he was, she couldn't …god, how was she going to get out of…?

As her panic rose, Sherlock Holmes reached out a deliberate hand and the cup was knocked across the table (mercifully away from his microscope) and hot, black coffee spread across the desk, floor; dripping onto the seat next to him and pooling around their shoes (_YSL? She wasn't sure. Hers were from Next. In the sale_). They both leap up. Sherlock is already mopping the mess with paper towels.

"Unforgivably clumsy … my apologies – _Miss Hooper_."

(_He only knows my name – god, now I feel even worse_)

And as they clean up, Molly couldn't be more pleased that he didn't drink the coffee she had _liberally_ laced with _bisacodyl_ – a potent laxative – she was truly ashamed at such immaturity. She is better than that.

And as they clean up, Sherlock smiles internally. After noticing the tell-tale bottle through her pocket and recognising the incriminating scum on the surface of his potential beverage; he felt he definitely owed Molly Hooper a get-out clause by knocking it over – no questions asked. Usually terminally bored with the intricacies of humanity and their confusing decision-making processes – there turned out to be something…_slightly intriguing_ about Miss Hooper.

He`d maybe have to keep one eye open around _her_…

**xoxoxoxoxoxox**


	2. Habeas Corpus

Part 2: _Habeas Corpus_

"What are you thinking, pork or the pasta?" Molly`s neck prickles. He`s right behind her at the canteen serving hatch. Through the steaming and heavily fragrant dishes laid out before her, she can still, _just_, detect the smell of _him_ – Tom Ford, Tobacco Vanille. She may, or may not have done some research, in Selfridges.

"Oh, it's you!" Confident. Strong. Casual Molly.

"I suppose it's never going to trouble Egon Ronay, is it? I'd stick with the pasta. Wouldn't be doing roast pork. Not if you're slicing up cadavers."

_Yum._

"What are you having?" _You_ are eating in the Hospital canteen? In your Saville Row tailoring?

"Don't eat when I'm working. Digesting slows me down." Seemingly, not.

"So you're working here tonight." Molly turns her head slightly and finds herself looking directly up into his pale blue/grey eyes. Darkened limbal ring. Apparently a dark one is more attractive to women. _Go figure_.

"I need to examine some bodies." She has dark brown eyes. Long, straight hair. Lipstick that comes and goes. Ginger cat. Right-handed. Dead mother…no, father.

"Some?"

"Eddie Van Coon and Brian Lukis." His eyes are now darting over her shoulder. She knows that`s where the clock is. He clearly wants something and has allotted a certain amount of time with her to get it. _Brilliant_. Was she going to take pity and cut to the chase for him?

Er – no.

"Hmm…I think they're on my list." She looks back at the food. She can almost feel his impatience boring into the back of her neck. It`s all about the ti -

"Could you wheel them out again for me?"

- ming.

Pause. Would she wait until he said please? Molly selects the pork and starts walking towards an empty table. Would he follow?

"Well... their paperwork's already gone through." She sets down the tray. His arms are mirroring hers on the opposite side of the table and he`s staring right into her face. God, she is a _strong _pathologist today. Baiting Sherlock Holmes was a true test of her internal struggle between lust and pride.

"You changed your hair." She can`t help it – her hand goes to touch it, even though she knows exactly what it looks like.

"What?"

"The style—it`s usually parted in the middle." Wow. Sherlock has really impressed himself with the use of that little observation. He had heard John Watson say it to that girl – Sally? Charlotte? Girls like it when you notice their appearance. Although Sherlock doesn't welcome the burden of anyone`s – _passion _–, he doesn`t mind using compliments to get what he wants. Molly had been pretty helpful in the past. It was a little tedious that she was taking a little longer to persuade this time.

"Yes, well..."

"No it's good. It suits you better this way." He looks pretty desperate by now and Molly does have an awkward residual element of guilt since the _bisacodyl incident_.

"I`ll see what I can do, Sherlock. Now, I`m going to eat my Michelin starred roast pork and try not to think too carefully about slicing up Mrs Ellison this afternoon."

Sherlock is turning away, target achieved, when he pauses. Her eyes are looking down towards her plate, fork scooping something greying and dubious – then she pauses. And looks up at him. And smiles.

As Sherlock Holmes walks out of the canteen, he finds he is smiling too.

**xoxoxoxoxoxox**


	3. Playing the game

"Jim, this is Sherlock Holmes." God, why does she feel so ridiculously nervous…He`s not her _dad_…

"Ah!" A small, skinny, dark man – sparking with a kind of barely contained energy – has entered the lab. He is looking directly at Sherlock, who is looking directly into the lens of a microscope. Typically. Molly`s heart pounds. _Treacherous heart. _

"And uh... Sorry?" She blushes horribly, having totally forgotten the name of Sherlock`s friend. Awkward. Luckily he smiles and holds out a hand. Much better manners; more Mr Bingley than Mr Darcy, it would seem.

"John Watson, hi." Jim politely but swiftly dispenses with the proffered hand as he only has eyes for Sherlock. She had hoped Jim would have been a little cooler than this…

"Hi." Jim is so close to Sherlock, the latter is forced to acknowledge his presence with a slightly irritated glance. "So you're Sherlock Holmes. Molly's told me all about you. Are you on one of your cases?"

Molly, suddenly fearful Sherlock Holmes will say something inappropriate or rude (or both), starts to babble to fill the gap.

"Jim works in IT upstairs. That's how we met. Office romance." _God, I hate myself. _

"Gay." Sherlock seems to mumble a word which Molly feels she must have misheard…

"Sorry, what?" She steps forward towards him. _In his beautiful, purple shirt. Focus_!

"Nothing. Um, hey." Sherlock has the air of a man who has mistakenly spoken a thought out loud – a thought that was meant to stay un-said. In embarrassed confusion, Jim (from IT) steps back and clatters over a pan which has been simmering on the Bunsen burner. Sherlock frowns; knowing a new batch will take another twenty minutes to prepare. Molly`s new boyfriend seems irritating on every level.

"Sorry! Sorry! Well I better be off. I'll see you at the Fox. About six-ish?" He really can`t get out of the room fast enough.

"Yeah." _Omigod – omigod! I KNEW this was a terrible idea – Sherlock and the outside world are not mix-y things!_

"Bye. It was nice to meet you"_. _Jim hurriedly waves farewell to John Watson. He seems unable to look at Sherlock – which is fine, since Sherlock isn't even turning around from his _essential_ microscoping.

"You too." John bids farewell. For the both of them.

Almost before the heavy door had swung shut, Molly turns on Sherlock with a mixture of anger, embarrassment and … horror?

"What do you mean gay? We're together." She wishes (always wishes) she could formulate her sentences better around that – _git_! She feels like a linguistically challenged cart horse around that – _tosser!_ See – resorting to swearing now….

"And domestic bliss must suit you, Molly. You've put on three pounds since I last saw you."

Wha – a – a - t!?

"Two and a half." Way to go with the comeback, Hooper…that should convince him.

"Mm. Three." Told ya.

"Sherlock— " John clearly is seeing how upset (irate!) she is getting…maybe, because he is a _human being!_

"He's not gay! Why'd you have to spoil— ? He's not." Sherlock looks at her with his cool, aquatic eyes. Not a flicker of – empathy. He was a bloody – _machine_! Molly`s hands were shaking, so she dug her nails into her palms to quieten them. She`d done that since she was a little girl. Before she`d discovered whisky and ginger, through a straw.

"With that level of personal grooming?" Relentlessly continuing…

"Because he puts a bit of product in his hair?" John Watson is interjecting – to support Molly. " I put product in my hair."

"You wash your hair. There's a difference. No, no. Tinted eyelashes. Clear signs of taurine cream around the frown lines, those tired, clubber's eyes. Then there's his underwear."

"His underwear?"

"Visible above the waistline. Very visible. Very particular brand. That plus the extremely suggestive fact that he just left _his number_ under this dish here and I'd say you better break it off now and save yourself the pain." Sherlock pulls out a small card; upon which is a number Molly Hooper recognises only too well.

Tears sting in her eyes; and it`s not all to do with defending the honour of Jim from IT. She couldn't let that – _machine_ – see she was affected. Molly leaves abruptly, letting the door slam shut behind her. She runs down the corridor towards the fire exit at the end of the corridor. It leads out onto a fire escape, which is mercifully free of smokers.

Molly puts her hands on the railings and gulps in the cool, London air – smog, pollution _et al_. She is pretty humiliated. What had started out as showing off her new boyfriend to a man she had _wanted _to be her boyfriend, had ended up a big, hot mess. _Bollocks. Bastard. Bloody hell_. The three `B`s` - or _unholy trinity_, as her dad had called them.

"Gracious, Miss Hooper, would you kiss your mother with that mouth?"

Shit? She`d said them out loud? _No_! And guess who had followed her out onto the fire escape…

Spinning round, the wind whipping her pony-tail across her face, Molly is inches away from Sherlock Holmes.

"If my vocabulary is lacking – _finesse _– it`s probably down to your _extreme twat-ness_ back there, Sherlock. There really was no – "

And she stops abruptly because his face has changed into an expression she has never seen on him before.

_Uncertainty._

"Miss Hooper – Molly…I need to ask you something. Something very important…"

Oh my actual God…wha - ?

"Is it true you have a Blog? A pink one, with kittens?"

Nope. That _so_ wasn't what she was expecting. Sherlock Holmes`s cool eyes are cool no longer though. Their intent is focused – _and hot._

"Er…yes. What can you want with my Blog, Sherlock?" _You barely know I exist – please don`t tell me you`ve been reading my blog entries._

He steps closer, placing his hand on the rail next to hers. They do not touch, but it is the singularly most intimate thing she has ever experienced with any man. _Ever_.

"You`ve helped me so many times before Molly; I need you to help me again. It`s a _very big deal_, I`m afraid."

Less than a week later, a new message appears on Molly Hooper`s blog:

_Jim, are you reading this? I'm sorry we argued and I don't mind if you're gay or not but where are you? Please, I miss you and I'm worried about you! Why aren't you answering your phone? And why aren't you at work? Your manager's going mental! Please! Just get in touch! Let me know you're okay!_

**xoxoxoxoxoxox**


	4. She loves to play games

Molly Hooper is nervous. And confident. She is nervously confident. Confidently nervous. If you will. Oh God.

Molly hitches the strap up for the fourteenth (_vast underestimation_) count. The bloody dress. Sarah had insisted she get it – _"omigod, Molly, Mr Darcy is going to be like a dog at broth when he sees you in that…you have to get it!"_

The diamante straps were awful pretty - £150, thank you very much – and it was hers.

God, did anyone _ever_ answer the door? Molly shifted her gift bag to the other hand. She had been prepared this year – embarrassingly so. More for her new set of friends than her actual family, truth be told. Mum was fine, but she was so distracted at the moment; all she could see were aquamarine eyes and dark curls… is that truly the Christmas spirit that the church and John Lewis were asking us to think about? _Probably not_.

When John finally opens the door, she is passed stressing and follows him, fatalistically up the stairs. What could be so awful? The bag in her hand weighs heavier  
than ever – maybe it was too bold a move; but sometimes, Sherlock Holmes needs not to be in charge of everything…this _really is_ something she thinks he will like.

Hooper, get a grip….you are a skilled professional. You do not need the approval of a flawed, addictive, rude, potential sociopath…you will always have _Blossom Hill_ and the entire box set of _Sex and the City_ (aka: The Bible) if needed.

Molly knows Greg Lestrade`s eyes are on stalks as she sheds her outer layers, but – god help her – she can only really see the only man in the room who isn't paying her any attention. Why is he on his lap top when there are numerous visitors in the room? _Why, Molly, are you even asking that question?_

"I see you've got a new boyfriend, Molly, and you're serious about him." No way. He promised he wouldn`t…

"What? Sorry - what?" Would she play along? _Baby likes to play_…

"In fact you're seeing him this very night and giving him a gift." Oh, really?

John: "Take a day off." Bless you John Watson; always the Bingley to his Darcy.

Lestrade: "Sherlock, have a drink." Lovely Greg – although he may have had more of an eyeful of _Hooper bosom_ than was advisable…

Yet Sherlock Holmes cannot be halted.

"Oh come on. Surely you've all seen the present at the top of the bag. Perfectly wrapped with a bow. All the others are slapdash at best. Must be someone special then. Shade of red echoes the lipstick. Either a subsonscious association or one that she's deliberately trying to encourage. Either way, Miss Hooper has _love_ on her mind. The fact that she's serious about him is clear from the fact that she's giving him a gift at all. That all suggests long-term hopes, however forlorn. And that she's seeing him tonight is evident from the make-up and what she's wearing. Obviously trying to compensate for the size of her mouth and breasts…"

Molly`s eyes widen in silent admiration. He`s really going for it. Folding her arms; battle stance. All her nerves have disappeared. Just keep going…you _will_ be sorry...

She moves closer. His clear eyes are glistening. He is _loving_ this. Good…good.

She is as calm as death when she quietly announces: "You always say such horrible things. Every time. Always. Always..."

And yet, recently and for quite a while, his eyes have said something else. God - this is empowering!

Then, predictably, Sherlock lifts the offending present from the bag and bothers to read the label:

_`Dearest Sherlock – love Molly`_

Then on the reverse of the label:

_`JM contacted my blog tonight. Details inside the box. Merry Christmas!`_

All the colour has left his face. Suddenly, he is no longer the smartest person in the room and all Molly can do is smile to herself – he`s got a way to go, but Sherlock Holmes definitely has - potential. He puts down her gift – very carefully – and leans into her. She feels his breath on her face and he is so close, his eyelashes brush her cheek. God…an audience made it even more … just MORE…

"I am sorry. Forgive me. Merry Christmas, Molly Hooper." He breathes into her ear and her heart thumps like a dancing bambi.

What no-one else hears is what she treasures the most.

"Thank you." 

**xoxoxoxoxoxox**

Christmas day in the Morgue. And you thought the Workhouse was bad…

Molly had left Baker Street earlier and was just cooling her heels at home, waiting for _Shrek_ to begin, when she got the apologetic call from Mike.

"It`s an emergency Molly – the powers that be have insisted the matter is sorted tonight. I would go myself, but I`m in Norfolk with the wife`s family – " sounds of screaming children, high on Christmas, and very loud TV dominated the background. Molly feels Mike Stamford would have quite enjoyed a quick trip to St Bart`s that evening. But no, it was no trouble. Christmas can be a bit crappy sometimes. She was glad to be in the peace and quiet in a place where all lives must end.

She catches Sherlock Holmes clocking her Christmas jumper and, despite the anxiety on his face, she detects a microscopic ghost of a smile at the corner of his mouth. I both see, _and_ observe, Mr Holmes.

"You didn't need to come in, Molly"

"That's okay. Everyone else was busy with... Christmas. Ah, the face is a bit sort of bashed up, so it might be a bit difficult."

Molly has pulled back the sheet from the Jane Doe`s face. Blunt force trauma. Not such a pretty end to a once pretty girl. Mycroft Holmes, maleficent in his pin-stripe and Abercrombie, steps forward. His cold eyes survey the body without a glimmer of emotion. Molly idly wonders what Christmas`s were like _Chez Holmes_, back in the day. _Grim_, she surmised.

"That's her, isn't it?" He looks quizzically at his brother.

"Show me the rest of her." Sherlock Holmes – always the potential to surprise. Molly obliges. Good body. For a corpse. All those pilates classes have only led you here. You may as well have eaten more cake.

"That's her."

He seems very certain. Molly checks her paper work again, trying to disguise a blush creeping up her neck. She casually wonders if she may be suffering from some kind of _idiopathic craniofacial erythema_…

Mycroft, politely dismissive: "Thank you, Miss Hooper." Sherlock has already left in a flurry of Belstaff and icy air.

She can`t help ask him: "Who is she? How did Sherlock recognise her from... not her face?"

Mycroft says nothing and she must be content with a tightening of his mouth a bid goodnight.

The wall telephone is ringing as he leaves the room, following his brother.

Sherlock stands outside the door of the morgue. Something inside him feels…raw and unyielding. Despite his casual words to his brother, Sherlock feels the inner workings of his chest and throat. They are tight and his eyes are swimming with treacherous tears which he will not allow to fall. What the hell was he doing? Massive, deep breath. God, he would physically assault someone for a Capstan`s Full-Strength right now.

A shocking lurch as the door opens and his mask is resumed as he turns.

Molly – Molly Hooper? She has a file in her hand and her eyes meet his. And he _knows_ his _mask_ is just a waste of time with her.

"Sherlock," Breathless … from running … something was pretty urgent. "I need to talk to you – about the body back there…"

"There is nothing more I can say about Miss Adler – "

Molly interrupts by holding up the file. He reads anxiety in her face. He finds he doesn't like it. She speaks:

"Something does not add up. I just took a phone call that was meant for someone else…a phone call which leads me to believe – that body is not who you think it is."

She has the rare pleasure of seeing actual surprise on the face of Sherlock Holmes. It`s probably been seen more often on Mount Rushmore.

"What can you mean?"

"A cover up – it isn't her…" her kind, deep brown eyes look shyly into his pale face. "… don`t worry Sherlock…I think the lady you seek isn't on that slab. I think she`s still alive."

And a lovely and genuine smile spreads across his face as he takes her hands and just _holds them_. 

**xoxoxoxoxooxox**


	5. Falling

Part Five: _Falling_

God, she is going to be late meeting Joanne – yet again. Molly Hooper is pulling on her jacket, simultaneously rifling through her bag for her phone and trying to check her watch when she hears the doors at the end of the corridor swing open. Hurried footsteps, coming towards her.

"Molly! Molly Hooper…!"

Uh-oh.

"Oh, hello. I'm just going out." Sherlock Holmes is cheerfully brisk and business-like; hands in pockets.

"No you're not." Ooh. She does have a soft spot for _Dominant Sherlock_…however –

"I've got a lunch date."

"Cancel it. You're having lunch with me." _Ooh_. But –

"What?" She wasn't fooled for a second; particularly since John Watson stood, apologetically next to his friend; and Sherlock had pulled several packets of Quavers from his pockets. Her original lunch plans had included a very tasty and overpriced risotto at Sabatini`s.

"I need your help. It's one of your boyfriends. We're trying to track him down. He's been a bit naughty."

John seems almost as surprised as Molly: "It's Moriarty?"

"'Course it's Moriarty."

Although they appeared to be marching back towards the laboratory she had just exited, Molly wasn't about to let Sherlock Holmes frog-march all over her last relationship as well.

"Jim wasn't actually my boyfriend. We went out three times. I ended it." _And I`ve kept it simmering for months so you could contact him through my blog – you git._

"Yes, and he stole the Crown Jewels, broke into the Bank of England and organised a prison break at Pentonville. For the sake of law and order I suggest you avoid all future attempts at a relationship, Molly." He puts his hand on her shoulder as if to steer her physically as well as verbally.

And as the lab doors swing shut and Molly mentally waves goodbye to the risotto whilst simultaneously composing a grovelling text to Joanne; she is only slightly placated to feel a tiny squeeze from the hand on her shoulder. And she manages a little smile.

**Xoxoxoxoxox**

Molly has been analysing the slide of linseed scrapings for a full twenty minutes. She wishes she could rush these things a bit sometimes. If only there was an App for it.

"Alkaline." She eventually pronounces.

"Thank you, John." He doesn't look up from his own microscope. John Watson is over on the other side of the lab; out of earshot.

"Molly."

" Yes." Absently.

Molly Hooper gets it. Suddenly it`s as clear as day. Molly Hooper listens. And she notices what others do not – just like Sherlock. In matters of the heart, she is a _world-class consulting detective_. She is loyal and she is accepting. And she understands what people _need_.

"You're a bit like my dad. He's dead." Sherlock is still looking at his slide, but his fingers have stopped drumming repetitively on the counter top.

"Molly, please don't feel the need to make conversation. It's really not your _area_." Sherlock Holmes knows this time that he is being rude. He senses she is working up to something and he doesn't want to be – _exposed._

"When he was dying, he was always cheerful, he was lovely. Except when he thought no one could see." She swallows. _Please don`t dismiss me now. I need you to hear. I can see you_.

"I saw him once. He looked sad."

"Molly – "

"You look sad. When you think he can't see you." They both glance across at John Watson, who is looking through some case notes on the opposite side of the lab.

"Are you okay? Don't just say you are, because I know what that means—looking sad when you think no one can see you."

There, she got to say it. What she had been thinking – for _weeks_ . The squeeze on the shoulder told her more than anything that he was ready to hear her.

Sherlock looks into her small, heart-shaped face. She has the `_Golden Ratio_` - the distance between eyes and mouth are around 35% of her whole face length; the distance between her eyes are around 45% of her face width. A genetically perfect ratio, preferred by potential mates. Her eyes look at him; through him. They are warm; comforting – like a hot, scented bath after being caught in a storm. Her cheeks are slightly pink and her lips slightly parted. And he can suddenly see that she wants nothing but the best for him. Sherlock has always found _empathy_ a slippery and difficult element to include in his life. It is incredibly hard – you must look beyond yourself; beyond your own needs. But, he can see that Molly Hooper has it – _in spades_. The stress of the last few weeks have been _grinding _him down and he has fought to stay calm; aloof and clear-headed. To ignore the inner workings of your heart makes you stronger – surely? Then, why doesn't he feel so strong right now?

"_You_ can see me." Because he _knows_ she can. He`s known for quite a while.

"I don't count." And Sherlock is astonished when her words feel like a knife to the heart. _Caring is not an advantage_.

"What I'm trying to say is, if there's anything I can do—anything you need, anything at all—you can have me." _God, Molly, why can`t you be eloquent? Still?_ "No, I just mean… I mean, if there's anything you need, it's fine."

Sherlock feels he has to regain his position of clear-headed aloofness. He does not have time for the _grit upon the lens_.

"What could I need from you?"

"Nothing. I don't know. You could probably say _thank you_, actually."

"Thank you." He looks back at the microscope, but he isn't seeing it. His heart is hammering in his chest.

"I'm just going to go and get some crisps. Do you want anything?" He isn't looking anymore. Internal sigh. "It's okay. I know you don't."

"Well actually, maybe I— " _Molly Hooper, I want you to save me. I am so tired. I know where this case is taking me and it isn't anywhere I want to go. I am afraid. Make it stop, Molly Hooper. I need your warm-hearted empathy; I need you to wrap your arms around me and tell me it`s going to be alright. I need your strength…_

"I know you don't." And she leaves for the vending machine, letting the heavy doors swing closed behind her.

**Xoxoxoxoxoxox**

Three days later:

Rushing, rushing – again. Mr Pycroft`s blood work hadn't come back until 6 and then the humidifier had chosen a really bad time to take a hissy fit…`_for goodness sake, Molly!`_ She could hear Sherlock`s voice in her head, telling her off for rambling. _That man_ _is living in her head, rent-free, 24/7._ Even more so, since she hadn't liked the look of him last time she saw him. There was a man who was – _struggling._ Could John Watson see it? Sherlock may as well have been carrying a placard saying `_I am in crisis_`…she felt he was heading for – a fall, of some kind. Trouble was –

"You're wrong, you know." _Aah_! Heart leaping out of chest. For the love of god – someone needs to put a bell on that man!

"You do count. You've always counted and I've always trusted you."

He won`t look at her, but she drops her coat, bag, everything – on the floor and goes over to where he stands.

"But you were right. I'm not okay."

Thank God. She feels hot, then cold. Her heart is racing; her mouth dry. Fear.

"Tell me what's wrong."

"Molly, I think I'm going to die." He feels hot, then cold. His heart is racing; his mouth dry. Fear.

"What do you need?" Compassion and strength have just kicked fear`s arse into next week.

As she touches his arm, Sherlock turns his head to look at her. His eyes are glistening and his face is set.

"If I wasn't everything that _you_ think I am, everything that _I_ think I am; would you still want to help me?"

"What do you need?"

Sherlock feels his tired heart expand and he closes his eyes, letting the warmth of her humanity wash over him.

"You."

**xoxoxoxoxoxox**


	6. Ring the Changes

Molly Hooper is just unloading the autoclave for the last time that day when she gets the text. She has been expecting it for a couple of days, actually. A small, but growing, smile finds her mouth and eyes. She is, actually, _beyond_ happy. The world goes from black and white into Technicolor. 3D - High Definition. With surround sound.

Twenty minutes later, she closes her locker door and her heart nearly stops. Again. Sherlock Holmes is back in the room and back in the world. She turns to face him, heart still palpitating from the shock.

"We never did get you that bell, did we?" He looks momentarily puzzled, then breaks into a smile that almost wipes out the sadness of the past two years.

"Hello Molly. I`ve been away. Anything happened?"

She smiles and her heart is singing out loud.

"Not much. Anywhere nice?"

"Nah. Food was terrible." 

**X0x0x0x0x0x**

The very next day, in Baker Street:

Sherlock is standing at the window as Molly enters 221B; surveying his beloved London. She smiles, indulgently. She has done little but smile for the past 24 hours.

"You wanted to see me?"

"Yes." Sherlock turns and starts to walk towards her. The air seems pregnant with – _promise?_

"Molly…" He seems strangely tongue-tied.

"Yes?" _Breathless Hooper._

"Would you ..." _Oh, Lordy…_

Halting again, he is clasping his hands behind his back…is he nervous? Could he be - ?

Sherlock walks closer. Still smells – the same. _God_.

Blue eyes – _aquamarine_…"Would you like to ..." _This is it, this is it - !  
_

Molly: "have dinner?  
Sherlock _(simultaneously)_: "... solve crimes?"

"Ooh." _Awkward._

Sherlock`s eyes widen – startled. He has been working hard on his empathy skills since his Fall. He feels that Molly might deserve the effort.

Then, their eyes lock and Molly snorts – with laughter – and Sherlock finds he has permission to join in.

They both have to sit on the floor eventually. The laughter has dissolved any tension – unresolved or otherwise – in the room. They both feel weak and relieved.

"I`m sorry, Molly," Sherlock wipes away an errant tear. "I will always be just _a little bit shit_ at this."

And that`s ok. It really is. 

**xoxoxoxoxoxox**

The solving of the crimes involves Molly Hooper using her day off to hold a notebook and become a _piss-poor_ facsimile of John Watson. She certainly gets to witness the seedy underbelly of London – the utterly conniving and hideous dishonesty of other people. Clearly, working with dead ones has its advantages. Stealing, cheating husbands and step-fathers – then that ridiculous Jack the Ripper set-up.

"Anderson," was Sherlock`s only comment as they strode along the street (usually at his break-neck pace, with her running to keep up). She knew Sherlock missed John and that she wasn't the answer.

"Sherlock?"

Molly stands at the top of the stairs after visiting Howard and checking his train tapes. She has made many, many notes but is quite sure that Sherlock will not be reading any of them.

"Hmm?" Sherlock stops at the bottom of the stairs and turns back to her.

"What was today about?" Being with him was – just – lovely; but she really couldn`t do this again.

"Saying thank you." He really has – evolved – since he jumped off that roof. Drastic, but, whatever works…

"For what?"

"Everything you did for me."

_Lying; falsifying documents; hiding a corpse; lying; squash ball providing; clothes getting; stealing; disguising; key-copying; sheltering; counselling; (and did I mention LYING…?)_

"It's okay. It was my pleasure." Molly shifts her bag to the other shoulder. _Laughing Sherlock_ seems a distant memory at the moment. He is looking like he wants to say something else -

"No, I mean it."

God, he looks so serious…_I think I may have chosen inappropriate words again. Crap_…"I don't mean "pleasure". I mean, I didn't mind. I wanted to." _I thought we were passed this waffling stage. Really, Molly._

But Sherlock is looking at her seriously; _intensely._ She knows he doesn't find it easy, but there is serious danger of some emoting in the offing…

"Moriarty slipped up. He made a mistake. Because the one person he thought didn't matter at all to me was the one person that mattered the most. You made it all possible."

_Lying; falsifying documents; hiding a corpse; lying; squash ball providing; clothes getting; stealing; disguising; key-copying; sheltering; counselling; (and did I mention LYING…?)_

He draws in a breath and his eyes look, properly, into hers.

_It was worth it. Every, single soul-searching, heart-lurching; long, sleepless-nighting, second._

"But you can't do _this_ again, can you?" _Oh. He knows. He knows. He must be able to see…me._

"I had a lovely day. I'd love to – I just ... um ... "

But Sherlock isn`t listening; he`s fumbling in his pocket; then the other pocket. There`s some deep pockets right there –

Then, Sherlock Holmes pulls out a box. A small box. A small box that looks just about the right size to hold –

He flips open the lid.

A diamond ring.

"Molly. I need you to wear this for me." 

**xoxoxoxoxoxoxox**

"Oh, congratulations, by the way." John Watson picks up Molly`s left hand and admires the ring. "Where did you meet?"

She knows Sherlock is just across the lab, checking the growth of his lichen cultures and totally within earshot. God, it`s that_ craniofacial erythema _rearing its ugly head again. Luckily, John took the mega-blush for newly-engaged bashfulness.

"He's not from work." She can actually see Sherlock Holmes smiling from across the lab.

Molly goes to babble-mode setting: "We met through friends, the old-fashioned way. He's nice. We ... he's got a dog ... we-we go to the pub on weekends and he ... I've met his mum and dad and his friends and all his family and I've no idea why I'm telling you this."

_Oh, you`re gooood_.

John looks slightly taken aback, but his eyes crinkle sweetly and she knows he`s really pleased for her, despite the fact _she is lying her head off, right in his face. _

Sherlock is still slightly smirking. _Dead man walking, Holmes_.

"I hope you'll be very happy, Molly Hooper. You deserve it." John lowers his voice, slightly. " After all, not _all_ the men you fall for can turn out to be sociopaths." _Godddd….excruciating, but –_

"Necessary." Sherlock had taken her to a silent, locked, secure room in the Diogenes Club. The beautiful gold-leaf stuccoed ceilings and red velvet chairs bely the dark secrets he is telling her.

Sources from a _cut-out_ in Tibet have uncovered, thanks to Sherlock`s _covert playback_, proof of a co-conspirator. _A co-conspirator of the late Jim Moriarty._ MI6 have their best intelligence (_most of them anyway_) on the hunt, but there is danger. Danger for all those linked to Sherlock Holmes. By Molly becoming fictitiously `engaged` to `_Tom Langdale-Pike_` - a tall, young, curly haired agent; who will protect Molly – it should ensure that friends of Jim Moriarty do not look too closely at the connection between Miss Molly Hooper and Mr Sherlock Holmes.

"This – craziness, then – is to keep me safe?"

Tall windows are allowing dappled sunlight to shaft into the room; lighting up dancing dust motes on the air. The place is dusty and silent – like a tomb. Sherlock nods, gravely.

"And…" She knows how ridiculous her next comment will sound, but, heck! She could be a marked woman. "… and so – "

Sherlock raises an eyebrow. "Molly…"

"you…and me …we – have – a – _connection_?"

He tilts his head and assesses her perfect _golden ratio_.

"Yes. Of course we do." And he smiles. 

**xoxoxoxoxoxox**

TLP is tall, blue eyed and handsome. A hint of a cheekbone too, to be sure. There could be worse people to be faux-engaged to. She had quite liked the ring too, until Sherlock had told her he`d found it in the throat of a skunk which had been washed up on the banks of the Thames and used in a vicious divorce/disappearance case. She`d had it in the autoclave about five times, even though he`d insisted it was clean.

After the almost-bombing of the Houses of Parliament, John Watson has invited her and `Tom` to Baker Street for celebratory drinks.

Apparently, getting engaged was the `_new black_`. Everyone was doing it.

Molly couldn't help but notice how focused, alert and dominant Tom is as they parry through the throng of photographers gathered on the pavement outside 221B. His eyes were scoping all around – faces; buildings; passing cars. It was just a little bit Whitney Houston in `The Bodyguard`. As they climb the stoop, she gets a text. From Sherlock? Isn`t he just ten seconds away from meeting with them?

_`You are loving this. SH_`

And she snorts, which she has to turn into a cough as she and Tom go up the stairs. Everyone is sat around with champagne glasses. Greg is here – how lovely! Sherlock is at the window, looking out, phone in hand.

"Hello, everyone."

"Hey, Molly."

Molly has decided she and Tom should hold hands. For authenticity. She isn't quite sure exactly why Sherlock hasn't told John about the co-conspirator, but maybe she will ask him. Soon.

"This is Tom."

A wide-eyed John Watson almost does a double take. Sherlock has thought it hilarious to dress Tom in one of his old coats and scarves. Tom has even got a similar pair of YSL brogues. She knew what they were all thinking but, truth be told, it was more than a little bit funny. Even if the joke was pretty much on her.

"Tom, this is everyone."

"Hi."

John looks over to Sherlock who is still looking at the press. Molly imagines he is composing his face before he turns around. Molly accepts a glass of champagne from Greg who nearly pushes it into her bosom, so entranced is he by her fiancé`s appearance.

"Hi."

Tom is very professional, however, and gives the wide-eyed happy greeting of a newly affianced man meeting her friends.

"It's really nice to meet you all." He looks at John. "Hi."

John has suddenly pulled himself together enough to shake his hand._ "_Wow. Yeah, hi. I'm John. Good to meet you. Hey, Sherlock, have you met Molly`s fiancé, Tom?" He has _so much_ the air of innocence. "We need to go down soon."

Sherlock turns and takes them in. He gives Molly the very ghost of a wink as he shakes Tom`s hand and passes on down the stairs.

"Nice coat." Is his only comment to Tom.

"Sit down, love." Mrs Hudson gestures to the sofa as Greg Lestrade sidles alongside Molly. Uh-oh. Here it comes…

"So, um, is it serious, you two?" Greg`s slight awkwardness indicates he has still to forget the diamante`d _Hooper Bosom_ of a few years ago. Molly likes him. And she is – as Sherlock says – quite enjoying herself.

"Yeah! I've moved on!" she smiles.

xoxoxoxoxoxox


	7. Rainbow

**HELP.**  
**BAKER ST.**  
**NOW.**  
**HELP ME.**  
**PLEASE. SH**

Molly Hooper has foolishly flicked open the message as she is rummaging under her sofa to retrieve Toby. That cat can smell the word _vet_, even before it has been uttered. She is wearing oven gloves (for protection) which makes her feat of text opening even more admirable. _Multi-tasking Molly._

Luckily, she is not thrown into blind panic by such a message. Dealings with Sherlock are like being on a roller-coaster. Inside of a maze. No two days, tasks or instances are ever the same. However, it is generally known, and widely believed amongst his friends and acquaintances, that Sherlock Holmes can be a bit of a (whisper it) _drama queen_. He has gone to some trouble to lay out the text in all that spacing, punctuation and capitalisation. Clearly, not a man in a life or death situation. Get me, thinks Molly Hooper; I_`m deducing_!

_Taking Toby to vet for mange treatment. Very important. MH_

Seconds later:

_Important for Toby, maybe. I remain in dire need. SH_

She smiles and doesn't answer, and by the time she has retrieved the shivering ginger, mangey mess and stuffed him unceremoniously (_it`s for your own good!)_ into the cat basket, another text has arrived.

_Which vet? Tark & Co. or Surbitons? SH_. Ah, Mr. A to Z.

_Tark & Co. Why? MH_

_I`m coming. SH_

The journey to the vets is actually a rather pleasant walk through Marylebone Royal Elizabethan Park and Dressage School. Molly has always loved horses and these impressively groomed show-offs were the _Kardashians _of the horsey world. She just wants to look and look at their prancing and mane tossing. It is July and the park was in the _fullest_ of bloom. Weeping willows trail their tresses, Ophelia-like, into the Marymead Lake; and the beautiful delphinium and begonia gardens of St. John and St. Mary show a riot of almost psychedelic blue and pink blazing colour to the passer by. Further down the walkway are her beloved Ann Boleyn Gardens; box hedges and fragrant and delicate herbs winding around elegant canes and stark white shingle. Further still she would encounter the Holbern Bandstand (such beautiful concerts on long, hot summer nights with a blanket and a bucket of Pimm`s) and the open-air Sherringford Theatre where she had once watched _Amadeus _and cried through most of it. Molly loved the park, but today, her indulgent reverie was somewhat compromised by her – _remarkably stressed_ – companion.

"This is hard." He had offered, in return for bending her ear, to carry Toby. The method of carriage was pretty reminiscent of The Nemesis ride at Alton Towers and she pictured Toby bracing all four paws to steady his passage. "Really hard. Hardest thing I've ever had to do."

"Sherlock, all you have to do is speak from the heart…"

"Have you any funny stories about John?"

"You have to say what is so good about being his friend…"

"I need anecdotes."

Soon, Toby will be needing a little more help than a mange serum. Molly stops Sherlock and gently retrieves her pet from the _Tower of Terror_, placing his box gently on the white gravel. She takes hold of Sherlock`s elbows, which ensures she has his full attention. She gives him the Hooper glare. Full-on Bush-Baby gaze.

"Sherlock, John considers you to be his best – "

" – man "

" – friend ."

Ah.

"And, as such, he is placing a great deal of trust and belief in you. He truly believes you are – the best and wisest man he has ever known."

Sherlock looks at little Molly Hooper. Her delicate face; quizzical eyebrows; glossy pony-tailed _bun-thingy_ and strange, clown-like clothing and sees her for what she is – _a giant amongst women_ – amongst people. A person who is smart and brave and tough herself, but is never afraid to let others shine; to take a background role when she needed to. A person who helps without artlessness; without expectation of anything in return. A person who is as ordinary as anyone – reacting as any normal person would to any given situation – but who has shown extraordinary traits and blazingly tremendous insight into the hearts of others. He knows he is a ridiculous man to many – a machine; an automaton…unaware of the traumas of others – only the problem to be solved; the danger to be faced. Alone used to protect him – it was all he had. Now … things are not quite as clear-cut – _what the hell has happened to the __**clarity**__ of Sherlock Holmes? _

"Sherlock? This is getting scary – you`ve said nothing for three minutes…"

Molly. Molly.

Maybe he should try speaking out loud.

"Molly, I don`t think I can express…" They have started walking again, as an alarming meowling had gained pace from the cat carrier.

"I am dismissive of the virtuous ...unaware of the beautiful ..."

Molly stares straight ahead, where the hypnotic St. Benedictine fountains cascade like silken shrouds of gossamer, over pale marble staircases.

"... and uncomprehending in the face of the happy." She cannot look at him.

"So, if I didn't understand I was being asked to be best man, it is because I never expected to be anybody's best friend. Certainly not the best friend of the best human being I have ever had the good fortune of knowing."

_Then two come along at once. Like buses_. Sherlock shakes his head, battling the voices. He was blaming his neuro-transmitters. Those _monamines. Dopamine_, most likely…more addictive than nicotine; than cocaine…

The refracted light of the late summer afternoon has created a perfect spectrum – a rainbow – over the fountain. A mystical haze hangs across the millions of water droplets galloping and shimmering towards their final destination.

"It`s hope." Molly stops momentarily, hypnotised by the beauty of the scene and the realisation of one man`s redemption.

"Sherlock – you are redeemed by John`s friendship – by everyone who knows and cares for you (_hel-lo blush – so nice you could make another appearance so soon_). But, you are not ridiculous, otherwise we – _people_ – wouldn't care about you. They wouldn't love you."

Sherlock`s inner sociopath formulates the idea of being loved by people. He supposes his mother loves him – and his father. Mycroft? He doth protest too much not to love his little brother. So, what should Sherlock Holmes do with all this freely given love? Its stands opposed to the pure, cold reason he holds above all things. A wedding was, in his considered opinion, nothing short of a celebration of all that is false and specious and irrational and sentimental in this ailing and morally compromised world. Probably best not to say that…? Best to check…?

Molly is speaking; important things; he can tell, so he removes himself from his Mind Palace.

"Mary and John deserve to be happy together. It is your job to wish them all of that, Sherlock. John has endured war, and injury, and tragic loss. He loves Mary and he loves you. He has saved _you_ from being – _too Sherlock_ – and is about to make _her_ his wife. You and Mary love him the most in the whole world. Make sure you tell him that, Sherlock. He chose you to be his best man, because he is yours."

Oh my. Sherlock has really listened to her. At least she hopes so. He has gone awfully quiet.

They are passing the beautiful begonias and delphiniums of the Garden of St. Mary and St. John.

"Those colours really shouldn't go together, should they?"

"No," replies Sherlock. "But they do."

And they turn the corner into the dressage yard and cross the cobbles in silence towards the large red and black doors of Tark & Co. Veterinary Surgeons; sharing the handles of Toby`s carrier.

**xoxoxoxoxoxox**

It is the night before John Watson`s stag night. Molly has given _faux-fiance-Tom_ the night off and is making popcorn in the lab for her and Joanne. The tempting smell of sea salt caramel had given the mortuary an altogether more attractive aroma. She was used to the smell of formaldehyde in the morning, but some people have expressed – _distaste_. Unfortunately for Joanne, Sherlock Holmes has turned up with a bulging file and demands on Molly`s time and expertise. And he is eating most of the popcorn.

"I lack the practical experience." He smiles at her through a mouth of sea salt caramel. _Still cute, damn it._

Providing Molly with his own and John`s medical records and vital statistics, Sherlock is asking Molly to calculate the ideal amount of alcohol the _stags_ should ingest to avoid _urinating in wardrobes_ (Joanne has offered a more ribald version which had made Sherlock blink before continuing).

Molly smiles a little smile and leans across to retrieve what was left of the popcorn.

"Liar." She whispers.

**xoxoxoxoxoxox**

The evening of _The Fall_:

Sherlock has gone back to Molly`s flat to `_regroup`_ (Mycroft) before leaving for Eastern Europe the next day. Molly thought, to keep her _norepinephrine _ levels to a minimum at having him in her flat for a night, they`d eat pizza and watch crap telly.

But they just got incredibly drunk instead.

"Errr ... am I human?" Sherlock`s eyes are crossing as he sits opposite to Molly on the floor, wearing a Rizla paper on his forehead, bearing his own name. He is also wearing Molly`s dressing gown over some questionable jogging bottoms and a baggy t-shirt with bees on it.

"Sometimes." Molly is wearing a Rizla with `_Molly Hooper_` written on it; as well as a permanent soppy grin and onesie decorated with cherries.

"Can't have '_sometimes_'. Has to be, um ..." Sherlock slides further down against a bean bag he is resting on (Molly is still sentimental about her student life).

Molly: "Yes, you're human. You are more human-est that ever a … human could ever be… a human…" _What was the question_?

Sherlock squints at her. She is possibly the most beautiful _wo-man…woman_ he has ever seen…not the _other woman_-more a woman-woman…real-woman…all-woman.

"Serotonin…" slurs Sherlock Holmes.

"Thass not a – question, Shhherl…(_a moment_)…ock!" Molly feels it appropriate to poke him in the chest for extra emphasis. "You are wearing BEEEESSS!" She starts to snigger.

Sherlock is unsure, through the tequila fog, why she is laughing, but feels it appropriate to get on board. He has had an _extremely_ stressful day. The damage that has been done is something he has had to totally delete – for one night only. For one night, he needs – _oblivion_.

"Yess…yes I am – wearing bees – on – my – body. They are your bees, Molly Hoop-ah."

"I know why, I _know why_…!" She tries to stand, then thinks better of it, and sits again. The sudden bump jars and disorientates her and she forgets her train of thought.

But Sherlock has it.

"I wear the bees because I am _verrry, verrry_ busy…" They both laugh for quite a long time over this. Then -

Molly points to her forehead. "Am I a woman?"

Sherlock is now lying on his side, in the manner of a Roman Emperor, propping his head up with one hand. He finds he can only nod. _Woman-woman.  
_

Molly: "Am I ... pretty?

_You are a doe-eyed goddess with the alabaster skin of a Grecian statue; your exquisitely arched eyebrows frame your perfect heart shaped face and skin; as lightly freckled in summer as a plover`s egg. Your pre-Raphaelite mouth curves faultlessly around your teeth and strawberry tongue, which has the power to make me laugh, cry and listen to you until the seas run dry. Your hair cascades and undulates around your shoulders with the gleam of a thousand suns and I want to touch it every single second I look at you…_

Impatient Molly: "Am I a pretty lay-dee, Sherlock?" Straggly hair flopping to one side, eyes glazed and stress spots all over her forehead, Molly Hooper knows she has looked better, but she is desperate to know who Sherlock has stuck on her head.

Sherlock swallows and looks around for his Percy Pig mug – source of all tequila.

"You are – quite – _nice_…" 

_Go on and close the curtains_  
_'Cause all we need is candlelight_  
_You and me, and a bottle of wine_  
_To hold you tonight (oh)_

_Well we know I'm going away_  
_And how I wish - I wish it weren't so_  
_So take this wine and drink with me_  
_And let's delay our misery_

_Save tonight and fight the break of dawn_  
_Come tomorrow - tomorrow I'll be gone_  
_Save tonight and fight the break of dawn_  
_Come tomorrow - tomorrow I'll be gone…_

_Eagle-Eye Cherry – Save Tonight_

xoxoxoxoxoxox


	8. Theres Something About Mary

Sherlock Holmes and John Watson have been reunited for the first time since John had returned from his trip _("honeymoon" – JW; "sex holiday" – SH_ ). Far from sharing the anecdotes of their most recent case, or the amazing sights of the Dalmatian coastline, the two ex-flatmates bonded in a way peculiar to their own little idiosyncrasies…

"Sherlock, could you pass me the pipette please? I need to test these electrolyte levels."

"Why?" John glances up. The pipette in question in directly adjacent to Sherlock`s sleeve.

"Because it`s right next to your sleeve."

Pause.

"I mean, why are you testing electrolyte levels?"

John sighs. It was the second module in his Masters – a very taxing little module. Mary was queasy and restless at night and he wasn't getting very much sleep. God help him when a baby was thrown into the mix.

"I am doing a study, as you already know, on the effects of ageing on aldosterone levels. Aldosterone release decreases with age; Cortisol release also decreases with aging, but the blood level of this hormone stays about the same. Dehydroepiandrosterone levels also drop, although the effects of this drop on the body are not clear…satisfied?"

Sherlock looks up from his slides momentarily; moderately impressed. He silently passes the pipette and resumes his assessment.

John silently shakes his head, then resumes his analysis. "Thank you Sherlock." _Teach by example_.

"That`s quite all right, Molly."

John slowly looks up from his _suddenly dull_ endeavours. Well, well…_that`s new_…

**X0x0x0x0x0x00x0x**

Sherlock sighs. He knew this was going to be difficult. _And it is._

"Do it again, Molly. Your last attempt was _so far_ from authenticity, it felt more like a _caress_."

There could _just_ be a teeny-tiny second where their eyes lock; then it is gone. Molly sighs.

"Sherlock, I am just _not_ a natural born slapper…" _Oh, for God`s sake, Hooper – it`s almost like a gift!_

Sherlock merely raises an eyebrow. And tries again.

"Hit me." _Baby, one more time…oh, why can`t she get that out of her head…?_

Molly Hooper draws back and raises her hand, then brings it down with some force, across his cheek. There is a resounding crack which actually manages to turn his head this time. Oh God – what if…

But Sherlock is smiling.

Rubbing his reddening cheek. "Well now, that is more like it."

**X0x0x0x0x0x0x**

Apparently, there was _something_ about Mary Morstan.

John and Sherlock were back on speaking terms after _the you-know-what_; partially owing to a dramatic bonfire rescue and partially due to the soothing balm of Mary and the obvious liking she had taken to Sherlock. Molly thought Mary was a lovely woman and a great match for John. She knew jealousy wasn`t really Sherlock`s _bag_, so she was slightly curious to find him back at her flat one evening; a little agitated(?) and asking for a slap. John Watson may argue that Sherlock was _always_ asking for a slap (as would Greg Lestrade, Sally Donovan and half of Scotland Yard) but this was a very literal request.

Although the buzz around Moriarty`s co-conspirator has died down somewhat, to the extent that Molly`s faux-fiancé has been recalled to other duties _("I`m ok, really. We just grew apart_." Knowing looks, but what the hell…); Sherlock had concerns. About John`s new wife.

"She has the facial tics and mannerisms of a liar." Molly was shocked. Sherlock is sat at her kitchen bench, twirling his fingers around in her _pot pourri_. Scrunching it; lifting it; dropping it. Over and over.

"But you like her. I like her. She is very likeable…"

"I believe Dr. Crippen had a very charming bedside manner, but liking someone shouldn't blind you to their faults, Molly…"

_Too right, you selfish, egotistical exploiter and sociopathic junkie_. Molly`s love for him is no rose tinted spectacle. She smiles.

He looks at her closely, unable to read her expression, then –

"She knows things. A _SKIP code_ isn`t common parlance to a medical receptionist. She had no relatives at her own wedding – even her friends are not long term; no relationship longer than two years."

Molly is horrified. How has he discovered these things? What does it mean for John…?

"She is having a baby, Sherlock! With your best friend!"

"One of the most imaginative murderers and multiple poisoners I ever knew was the mother of six children who all grew up to have well balanced lives and excellent careers. One of them became a pharmacist, come to think of it…"

A glance from Molly seems to break through his slightly inappropriate segue.

"…there are four other instances I could innumerate whereby Mary Watson (nee Morstan) may not be who she appears to be. This, in turn, could be something I cannot afford to ignore, especially in relation to your personal safety."

Molly continues in horrified status; dimly aware her mouth may slightly resemble that of a goldfish.

"I also have reason to believe that John Watson may now think that – " He slightly stumbles in his confident delivery. " – that _we_ may have …" Looking down at the pot pourri, as if only seeing it for the first time.

"Molly, what IS this?" She removes the bowl and looks him in the eye. He continues.

"That…I might have – there`s maybe a – _connection_ between us…" He is quite the picture. _Discomforted_ is the word. Maybe a bit of _shifty_ thrown in there too. Adorable. Molly doesn't let her enchantment and leaping heart betray her.

"I think there _is_ a connection between us, Sherlock."

He stops squirming and nods slowly. "Ye – ess… but I don`t want anyone to see it. I don`t want _Mary_ to see it, until I know who she really is. You have to show you don`t approve of me. That I am an irritant…"

"I don`t, sometimes. And you are. Sometimes. " Sherlock tilts his head, thinking it through. Molly smiles in the knowledge that she really is in his Mind Palace some of the time. She idly wonders what her location is…

"So, show her, just how much I _irritate_ you. Show them all…"

Thus, weeks later, Molly finds herself, standing in her own lab, slapping a low-life junkie who smells of sweat, weed and god-knows-what, across his stubbly face. Three times, actually.

"How _dare_ you throw away the beautiful gifts you were born with?" She glances briefly at John. Suitably _agog_.

Molly is empowered. "And how _dare_ you betray the love of your friends? Say you're sorry."

Sherlock IS quite sorry – sorry in particular that he coached her so ably in the art of face-slapping.

"Sorry your engagement's over," holding his face. " – though I'm fairly grateful for the lack of a ring."

Oh, he`s _good._

The Watsons ( and a couple of new add-ons) stare at them in amazement. Mission accomplished. Maybe she should have joined the Uni drama group? Missed opportunities, Molly…

"Just stop it." Just like they rehearsed it.

She is really hoping he is wrong about Mary…

**X0x0x0x0x0x0x0x0x**


	9. The Prairie Vole

There is a ruby of blood blossoming from my violently invaded chest and sternum. It is so innocently tiny and nondescript, I could easily have scratched myself with a ragged nail…

I look down at it in calm dismay, then up at Molly Hooper. She is wearing her lab coat. And no lipstick. It comes and goes…

She smiles at me and her brown eyes look a little – disappointed.

Walking around me. Surveying me. "It's not like it is in the movies. There's not a great big spurt of blood and you go flying backwards."

I screw up my eyes in the dazzling, cornea-blasting whiteness. The bright light doesn't seem to bother Molly Hooper. She comes and she goes...

"The impact isn't spread over a wide area…It's tightly focussed, so there's little or no energy transfer…"

I am seeing her in the mortuary. A drawer is pulled open and _my pathologist_ pulls back the sheet.

_Oh._

I lie white – bleached by the lights; by the bloodlessness. A bullet hole is in my lower chest, as tiny and innocent as a drawing pin head. How _can_ I be dead? How can this _be_? I look down upon my dead self, but Molly cannot see my living self; standing behind her. She cannot hear my inner voice – screaming at her to make it right – _don't let me be dead, Molly…_

" You – " She pulls the white sheet further back – " stay still ..."

_Don`t let me be dead…_

"... and the bullet pushes through…"

She is calm and business-like. Eyes assessing my corpse as a pathologist would assess her newest – patient? And I know this is no dream. A pain like no other is radiating from my chest like a searing, burning annihilation of my flesh and nerve endings. This is my end game…

This is how it feels to die.

_Don't let me be dead…_

"You're almost certainly going to die, so we need to focus."

I feel a panic, raw and new, rising up through my brain stem and seeping into every pore and cell. _I can`t be dying because then, how will you know…?_

Molly draws back her hand and slaps my dead, white face – hard and just like she practised with me. Good girl. _Giant amongst women…__ doe-eyed goddess with the alabaster skin of a Grecian statue…__**what?**_

And I breathe in a huge, dragging breath and my eyes snap open.

Molly looks slightly cross. Have I done something wrong? I was right to protect you Molly…Mary had a little lamb; it`s fleece was white as…

"It's all well and clever having a Mind Palace, but you've only three seconds of consciousness left to use it. So, come on – what's going to kill you?" I was right. She IS cross with me…Mary, Mary, quite contrary – how does your garden grow…?

_"_Blood loss."

"Exactly." She is so stern. I frown at her a little.

"So, it's all about one thing now…" _Don`t let me be dead…_

"Forwards, or backwards?"

_Don`t let me be…"_

"We need to decide which way you're going to – fall."

_Don`t let me…"_

"Is the bullet still inside you ...?"

_ Don't let…_

"... or is there an exit wound?"

_Don`t._

**Xoxoxoxoxoxox**

Bright overhead lights. Stink of disinfectant. Machines _beep-beep-beep-beep_… Briskly walking people - walking briskly down hard corridors; people mopping the floors – why are people in hospital always mopping floors? _Oh_…

Molly Hooper`s adrenalin levels have been _spiking_ to dangerous heights for the last twenty four hours.

**Spike One**: _Molly, come to the hospital; Sherlock has been shot…it`s bad…_

**Spike Two**: _He died on the table. Somehow we brought him back…_

**Spike Three**: _Someone out there hates Sherlock Holmes so much, they want him gone…and they are still out there…_

**Spike Four**: _Mycroft Holmes has been in, with a red flower for his brother. He looked – broken…_

**Spike Five**: _Parents at bedside; sobbing mother (holding Molly`s hand, very tight, despite the fact they had never met…)_

**Spike Six**: _Sherlock`s heart monitor, racing off the spectrum, after an unidentified visitor had left. Molly missed them by three minutes. Security cameras had picked up no strangers…_

**Spike Seven**: _Wanting to try her new found slapping skills on Janine, but finding out she was, in fact, hilarious, and probably justified in selling Sherlock down the river…_

**Spike Eight**: _Sherlock escaping from hospital…_

**Spike Nine**: _Sherlock re-admitted, with internal bleeding…_

God, she hated fucking hospitals…too much uncertainty. Will he make it? Will she survive the night? Will the results be clear this time? How many weeks left? Hell, she preferred the Morgue. Nothing was as certain as death. She needed a certainty. Too many ups…too many downs…stop, already.

When Molly had been a medical student, she had become acquainted with the Study of the Prairie Vole. Apparently, scientists and endocrinologists had discovered that two main hormones are responsible for attachment – the longer lasting bond that causes partners to become committed to one another. Whereas _norepinephrine_ and _serotonin_ are responsible for the `love-struck` state of newly paired lovers; it is _oxytocin_ and _vasopressin_ which influence the long-term relationship. Studies showed that the male Prairie Vole, when deprived of vasopressin, lost his devotion and, indeed, all interest in his female, and didn't even bother to protect her from new suitors.

Sherlock Holmes lies on his hospital bed. White sheets; white pillow; white face. Stable, at last, after a further two transfusions. He hadn't been able to speak to her, of course, but from the look on John Watson`s face and the complete absence of his new wife, Molly knew Sherlock had proved himself right – again. She sometimes _really_ hated it when that happened. John was even greyer than his best friend. She touched his shoulder and told him to leave and get some rest. He told her (quietly) to sod off. They both sat, opposite to each other; either side of the bed. Silence. For close on half an hour, then –

"I hate to use song lyrics in times of great trauma, but, have you ever fallen in love with someone…"

"You shouldn't have fallen in love with?" Molly finishes for him. "Well – yes. You?"

John puts his face in his hands and exhales the breath of a million cares.

"I just can`t – " Rubbing his closed eyes – "I am – broken down, Molly." Her heart lurches in her chest. She idly wonders if John has lost his _vasopressin_ – or just his belief in what he thought he had. He sighs again and his hands are shaking.

"I`m sorry, but this has been a _very bad day_."

No shit. "I know." Pause. "A really bad week, to be honest." John looks up, properly seeing her for the first time.

"I know he stayed with you. After he jumped. I know he stayed at your house." _Dammit – is there ever an appropriate time to go scarlet?_

Looking down. "Yes; he did. Just that one night."

John is looking at Sherlock`s inert form; being kind, again.

"So I know you understand – "

She waited.

"What it`s like to love a person – "

Just say it.

" – who can never love you back."

And there it is.

**xoxoxoxoxoxox**


	10. Dream House

Molly Hooper knows she is dreaming. It is a dream she dearly wants to remember and she hopes she doesn't wake up too soon.

Molly and Sherlock are in a treehouse. It is a perfectly round room; like a fairy tale house, belonging to an elf. Perhaps, like the Disney version of Snow White`s cottage – but in a very high tree. Molly knows the tree is high, because when she looks out of the window, there are layers of wispy, white cloud floating beneath them. They lie on a large, circular proggy mat; made from hundreds of separate pieces of cloth; recycled from many, many other garments, and woven together. In the vividness of the dream, she feels velvet next to her cheek and satin under her arm. All around the circular room, at intervals, there are stuffed animals, mounted on shelves – a badger; an otter; a wildcat; a hedgehog; a swan. The animals, although dead, look terrifically happy to be there and their eyes shine, benignly at the two living tree house inhabitants.

She and Sherlock lie, with their heads touching and their feet pointed outwards. She is at three o`clock and he at nine. She is wearing his purple Prada shirt, whilst he is wearing her baggy Bee T shirt – the one he had worn on the night after he jumped. She feels happier than she has ever felt. She is complete and utterly content.

"Where is the rat?" Sherlock`s voice is exactly the same as in real life; deep, smooth; slightly impatient.

"Missing." She seems to know about the missing stuffed animal. Of course she would – it _is_ her dream.

"Why, Molly? I need there to be a full set. I need my _creatures_ around me."

"His vomeronasal organs were missing."

"Oh, I see."

"Of course, he was unable to detect the pheromones without them."

"Naturally. I should have realised."

"He could only find his mate if he detected pheromones different to his own."

"I know," replies Sherlock. "They need mates with entirely different immune systems to their own. A pairing of two similar types could never work."

Suddenly, Sherlock is above her, looking down into her deep brown eyes with his pale, green-blue ones. She even hears her heart beating loudly in her ears in the dream. _Don`t wake up. Don`t wake up. Don`t…_

"Do you want to walk through the Laburnum tunnel in the _Bodnant Gardens_ with me, Molly?"

"Yes."

And suddenly, they are walking, holding each other`s hands, through a glowing, almost fluorescent yellow tunnel of drooping laburnum trees. Their scent is rich, cloying and buttery – leaving a taste in the mouth to accompany the smell. The light is dappled, shimmering, golden and unbelievably beautiful. And then Sherlock says:

"I shot him in the head. He had to go, like Redbeard. But I did it, and I can`t stay."

And she finds she cannot keep up with him. Her legs are marshmallow (as is often the way in dreams) and although she makes giant efforts to step forward, she gets nowhere, and he is getting further and further away along the golden tunnel.

And the feeling of fear, terror and overwhelming loss is still with her, when she wakes up, sweating and shaking with salty tears rolling down the sides of her face and sinking into her pillow.

**xoxoxoxoxox**


	11. The Gift

**I can`t forget you,**

**when you`re gone,**

**you`re like a song**

**that goes around in my head**.

(Like a song – Lenka)

Sherlock Holmes has been bundled into his brother`s palatial car and is being driven, hastily, back to the Diogenes Club.

_Miss me?_

Mycroft is sensible enough to say very little and Andrea is rapidly texting (as ever) in silence. Sherlock is tremendously grateful to have a moment to think.

He closes his eyes.

One might safely assume Sherlock Holmes is thinking about his most recent close shave; snatched from the jaws of almost certain death by a cartoon version of his arch-nemesis…_but he isn't_.

One may also assume he could be considering how he will endeavour to track down and hunt said nemesis; thus calming the hysteria gathering since Moriarty`s face had appeared on national networks all over the country…_but he isn't_.

Perhaps Sherlock is considering how wonderful it will be to see his parents and best friend again, after assuming the game was over. About his best friend becoming a father and all the excitement that should entail…_but he isn't_.

In the serene leather bound calmness of Mycroft`s sleek, black Bentley, Sherlock is thinking about something else. Someone else. Someone, who has gradually, imperceptibly, become a part of his life. Then, an _important _part. Then, an _essential_ part. He is thinking of Molly Hooper.

_**Two months ago**_**:**

Molly is walking with Sherlock from Baker Street to Bart`s with an _essential body_ _part _which he has `borrowed` and she has to be sure is returned. (_Fuss over nothing – he was always going to give it back_.) It was a nice day (_apparently)_ and Molly knew he wanted to think, so she was silent. And he _was _thinking, but firstly, he was _observing_. He was observing _her_.

_Observation A_**:** A distressed elderly lady is looking, with panic in her eyes, up and down the street. Molly Hooper discovers (_via Sherlock_) that she is partially sighted, has lost her son and needs a lavatory. Molly thus, marches into a nearby swanky boutique and requests the use of their gilded facilities. She brooks no bleating about how _they are for staff only_, and the old lady leaves happy and reunited with her son, when Molly has found his number on his mother`s mobile.

_Observation B_: A small, bespectacled child is weeping near a tree. His mother seems at a loss. Before Sherlock can utter the words "kite stuck", Molly has shucked off her shoes and is scaling the lower branches to unwind the string where it has caught. The child and mother are outlandishly grateful. He offers Molly (and Sherlock) one of his sweets.

_Observation C_: Instead of ignoring or dropping a random coin into a homeless man`s cup, Molly enters Starbucks and comes out with a latte and a shortbread for him. Sherlock recognises Billy`s friend Joe, who looks at Molly with eyes shining with gratitude (_or ketamin)._

_Observation D_: She offers to take several photographs of a love-struck couple near Marlborough`s statue; ignoring Sherlock`s observations that they were both having affairs and cheating on loved ones who wait at home.

_Observation E_: As they near Bart`s, Molly still finds time to direct a _posse_ of tourists to Baker Street (_"We love Mr Holmes back home – I`ve knitted him a new scarf!"_) whilst Sherlock hides behind a phone box. She is laughing that at least he wouldn't be _in_ to have to fend them off.

All in all, Molly Hooper is a creature made up _massively of good deeds_. As tremendously appalling as he is in assessing the emotions and needs of others, Sherlock knows, when he sees her with his new eyes, that she is _a truly wonderful human being._

His eyes flash open as his mind palace opens the draw and the file on Molly Hooper; and he gasps in a massive breath, startling his brother. Even Andrea stops, mid-word.

"Problem?" Mycroft has one eyebrow cocked.

"I won`t be going to the Diogenes Club."

"Indeed?"

"I need you to drop me somewhere else."

**Xoxoxoxoxox**

But Molly Hooper isn't at home. She isn't in her lab at Bart`s and she isn't at the homes of her friends Sarah and Joanne either. The two women appear surprised he has knowledge of their whereabouts, but he has been able to hack into Bart`s database for many a long year. Sarah (a statuesque Kenyan girl who had an unrequited obsession with a married man living in the flat opposite, and a parrot who had a skin problem) takes a moment to touch his arm and give him the benefit of her wisdom:

"She can`t always be around to help you, Sherlock … she isn't your … pet."

Sherlock feels he has been emotionally _slapped_. All these emotions are harsh and – inconvenient. He would have to try and get them in check.

"Your opinion has been noted. Also, may I recommend Tark & Co. for your parrot." And he leaves.

Molly can`t be found in all the obvious places. He is standing in the street outside her house and _literally_, pacing. He is the only consulting detective in the world; he has a brain the size of a planet and he can`t track down one, small pathologist. What is wrong with him? _Don`t ask that question, Sherlock; you might not like the answer_.

Then he has it.

It is dark by the time Sherlock reaches Marylebone Park. He remembers the Anne Boleyn Garden, where Molly told him about the love letters Henry VIII had sent to Anne Boleyn. Before he married her, betrayed her and chopped off her head, of course.

_My heart and I surrender  
ourselves into your hands, beseeching  
you to hold us commended to your  
favour, and that by absence your affection  
to us may not be lessened. _

_(July 1527)_

Pale moonlight shivers over the white shingle and shells, scattered around the box hedges. Pots of rosemary and sage; mint and lavender, send their mingled earthy scents into the night air. White clematis weaves around artfully placed canes and canopies look like milky stars in a black velvet night. The night is still and there is not a breath of air.

And there, on a pale green wrought iron bench, sits Molly Hooper. The faintly glowing solar lights demarking the pathways reflect light up into her face. And Sherlock sees that her face is sad. And he doesn't like it.

"They`ve locked the park, you know. I had to climb over the fence. We could be in here all night."

And she looks up, aghast to see him there. Disbelieving and shaken.

"What the hell happened to your suicide mission?"

"Guess."

She goes from startled to rueful in a second. "Dead or alive, that bloke has everyone running around like headless chickens…what are you doing here, Sherlock? Come to feed the ducks?" A sudden realisation hits her. "Oh, my god! Moriarty! (_a whisper_) – he`s not here, is he?" She looks around, in fear and uncertainty, which gives Sherlock a lurch in his chest and a hammering heart.

"No, Molly, he`s not here. Just me. And you."

And they both sit on the bench, side by side, beneath the starry white plants and the starry night sky.

**xoxoxoxoxox**

I am _beyond_ words to see Sherlock on the bench next to me. To see him here, not to have lost him to the east wind again. But how can you lose something you never really had? John Watson is right – how can you love someone who can never really love you back? I know Sherlock Holmes has had his uses for me – God, I`m no dupe – and I realise we have formed some kind of, _bond_, with our shared chats and walks and jokes (usually mine) that no-one but us sees. We`ve been through a lot, Sherlock and I; more than most have ever been through, in several lifetimes; but tonight, as much as I am overjoyed to see him, I know I can`t do this anymore.

"I am glad you`re back." I speak into the warm, still and scented night; not daring to look at him. If I look, I`ll not be able to say it.

"I`m glad you`re back, because I have some great news…about my Paper."

During Sherlock`s first hiatus, I used the two years to try and focus a little more on furthering my career. There was too much time for pining, and I needed to direct my pain to something useful. Thus, I had labouriously researched and written a moderately focused paper discussing the the initial steps of human pluripotent stem cells. Actually, Mike Stamford had called it `_ground-breaking_` and who was I to argue? Strangely, though, there was quite a _kerfuffle_ about my little paper and today I found out I had an invitation to present it in Scandinavia; Holland; Switzerland and Belgium, at quite a selection of Universities and Institutes. Probably not Nobel Prize material, but touring with my Paper would just get me out of London and away from anything that reminded me of the man I could never have.

Sherlock Holmes greets my news as would a statue on the Easter Islands. In fact, I think an Easter Island statue would probably show more emotion. I sigh. Therein lies the root of it all. Sherlock does not have the range of … _emoticons_ that most of us have. I have accepted it now and this is why I need to go.

"I did think you might be a _bit _impressed, Sherlock." _Nervous laugh_.

Nothing. Still, he probably _has_ had a bit of a shit day, to be fair.

**xoxoxoxoxox**

I am unsure of what to say or do. All I can comprehend at present, is that Molly is going away. Probably, for months. She has been successful in her career. Molly is a clever, competent woman…she has chosen ill-advised partners and jumper designs, but that does not affect her competency and achievements. Molly is _three-dimensional_. She is a rounded person and can appeal to many people on many levels. _And she is leaving. _

Molly cares; she makes jokes no-one finds funny; she stammers and blushes when nervous; she listens; she puts others first; she is a good, good person. _And she is leaving_.

Molly has straight, shiny hair; lipstick that comes and goes; the velvety brown eyes of a marmoset or bush-baby and the small capable hands of a life-saver. _And she is leaving_.

**xoxoxoxoxox**

Sherlock has been silent for many minutes. I have lost count. He must be in his Mind Palace; maybe Moriarty should be worried already? His dark hair hangs limp in the evening air and his face is drawn and tired. I long to reach out; to touch him, but I can`t keep doing this. Fixing him. I need a man who can love me _right back_. Why, then, do I actually turn to face him and gently touch his shoulder instead.

"Sherlock – "

His eyes snap on and look at me.

"Molly – "

I listen to what he wants to say. His face looks stricken.

"Molly, I have a pain inside here – " he touches his chest and I am thinking, _old wound re-opening; stress induced heart attack…_

But, no.

Sherlock Holmes takes in the deepest of breaths and gives me the strangely latent heat of his aquamarine gaze – full on and full of … trepidation? He speaks softly, but with purpose.

"Everything can be attributed to science. We both know this, as scientists. We formulate a hypothesis, then a question which tests this hypothesis. We then devise a fair test which can challenge this question to, hopefully, its logical conclusion. Variables are either fixed or changeable and data can only really be assessed fully when all the results are collated."

Inside I smile. _Sweet talker_.

"Love is the obsession of the human race. It has caused wars; deaths; heartbreak…"

Oh, dear…

"…as well as all the joy and delirious happiness that can be found in this life. I know this from poetry; art; music; literature; as well the questionable _romcoms_ John Watson has imposed upon my life."

I smile, but he is _in the zone_…Sherlock rakes his hand through his dark locks. He is readying himself for something. I know the signs…

"So, Molly Hooper – can science explain love? It can, as we both know, through study of hormones; testosterone, oestrogen; of neuro-transmitters like dopamine or serotonin. These can send a person temporarily insane, in the name of love. Norepinephrine – an adrenalin which makes our hearts race in the presence of someone we `love`."

_Where are you going with this, Sherlock? My adrenal glands are going into overdrive – yet again…I just hope the darkness hides the creeping crimson tide of my blush…_

"Oxytocin; vasopressin; pheromones which unconsciously repel and attract us – whenever and wherever the cruel caprice of nature decides." He stands up suddenly, and shakes his hands, arms, like a boxer going into the ring. Then, beginning to pace. Lots of pent up adrenalin in him – _unsurprisingly_.

"Sherlock, you don`t ha – "

"Yes – " he stops, mid-pace; the solar lights highlighting his cheekbone and tensed jaw – "Yes, I do. All that I`ve just said – all that science is reasonable enough. Until … until it doesn't make any sense, anymore. I have always relied on hypothesis; test; result – the holy trinity…always." His feet, crunch, crunch, crunch in the pale, moonlit gravel.

"Now…now, all results are here, as plain as day, and I must draw my conclusion, Molly." He stops.

"I have eliminated all of the other possibilities and can only make a final deduction…" And Sherlock Holmes slowly kneels down in front of me and picks up my hand – _my actual hand_ – and holds it; quite tightly, actually.

"…all I can surmise is …" I can`t help him this time, he has to tell me himself.

"… I`ve examined and re-examined all collated data and…well…" there is an infinitesimal tremor in his voice and vivid pale eyes look up into mine.

"I think I must love you, and there is nothing I can do about it."

And there lies my little miracle, new born and beautiful, for all the world to see.

**X0x0x0x0x0x0x0x00x**


	12. Epilogue: A Scientific Discovery

John and Mary`s baby boy is born in April, when the bluebells are springing up, dancing their heads alongside those of the daffodils. Catkins and Pussy Willow unfurl from branches and acid green shoots are appearing everywhere. It is a time for growth; a time for rebirth and new beginnings.

Sholto William Watson is nearly eight pounds in weight and twenty two centimetres long – slightly longer than average. He has sandy, tufty hair and a light down all over his body which they know will disappear within a week. He can blink and yawn and cry and sleep. He startles with loud noises and uncurls his little fingers like starfish in surprise. He is slightly pink and smells of milk and powder and – just _baby_.

At Baker Street, Mrs Hudson has welcomed the new parents and their _mini-Watson_ with cake and tea. DI Greg Lestrade and DS Sally Donovan are part of the welcoming committee, since they are visiting Sherlock regarding the attempted suicide of Mr Arthur Harry Pinner. ("_Forced, at gun point – G.S.R. in small of his back and near his temple. Check his brother`s account at Crockfords_" – Sherlock). Alterations are underway in the cellar of Baker Street – 221A is being re-designed as a high tech laboratory for Sherlock`s exclusive use. It appears that several of Charles Augustus Magnussen`s ex-blackmailees are more than grateful for his demise. Thus, with traipsing workmen and baby welcoming committees, Baker Street is bustling. And everyone wants to hold the new baby.

_Almost_ everyone.

Molly Hooper sits alone in Sherlock`s bathroom. She needs a moment. Or, two.

In less than two weeks, Molly will be leaving London to embark on her lecture tour (_such an embarrassingly grand title – she cringes whenever Mike mentions it_.) She will be out of the country, on and off, for around seven months. It is a fabulous opportunity – amazing. If her paper is backed by such prestigious sponsors as Bern University and the Stockholm _Kunskapsbas_ Library, she might even get more sponsorship for Bart`s which would mean their lab improvement and expansion project would get the green light. Oh God – so much responsibility on the small shoulders of Dr Molly Hooper… It brought her out in a cold sweat in the middle of the night.

She clutches her knees close to her chest; sat on top of the lavatory seat. She checks her watch again.

_Oh God._

She would only be able to visit the UK between venues, and that was allowing for weather, transport and times of year. She has joined a research team at the Uppsala Medical School in Sweden, and much of her spare time will be spent there.

Maybe there was a little more leeway with visits home than they first mentioned. She was going to have to talk to the organisers. Maybe. What the hell time is it now? This was truly _brilliant_ timing. There was a baby in the building; workmen rushing up and downstairs, demanding tea with six sugars; Sherlock constantly asking her opinions on homogenisers and centrifuges for the new lab and now – she was at the mercy of a twelve centimetre piece of white plastic.

Her future career; her standing in the medical community; her travelling around the cooler parts of Europe; her responsibility towards the Department at Bart`s – all hanging on the whim of a stick on the side of a bath.

_God_. For a couple of smart people, she and Sherlock had been kind of – _unsmart_. Maybe.

How many seconds left?

She sneezed. Another cold. Was her immune system suppressed? That wasn't good.

_Lutenizing hormone (LH)_ and _Follicle Stimulating Hormone (FSH)_ were a couple of co-conspirators who had (maybe) picked a terrible time to join forces and gang up on her. If _Human Chorionic Gonadotropin_ (hCG) had decided to join the party – she was truly – _deaded_. All bets off. End of the road.

Downstairs, Sherlock has just rolled his eyes at yet another workman who didn't really understand the need for so many gas outlets and been accosted as the only remaining human who had not had `_a hold_` of baby Sholto (_Ridiculous! `Sherlock` would have been a far better choice – _) when he receives a text. Holding a tiny, hot, squirmy infant would not, however, be enough to stop Sherlock Holmes _opening_ a text.

"Aw, look, Sherlock, he likes you!" He really _should_ put Mrs Hudson on semi-permanent mute.

`_There has been a spike in hCG. My corpus luteum is ready to rock and roll. Time for the unholy trinity. MH_`

_Bollocks. Bastard. Bloody hell._

John Watson lifts Sholto from the arms of a glazed Sherlock Holmes. Did he say that out loud?

"Lovely – most people just say `he`s _the imag_e of _you_!`"

It would seem so.

He can just hear Mrs Hudson`s "SO unlike him – usually not much of a swearer!" as he takes the stairs, two at a time, to Molly, in her porcelain fortress of solitude.

**THE END**


End file.
